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LIBRARY QF^ONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMEKICA. 



VEI^SES 



or THE 



Ydlleij and tlie Mountoliis. 



BY 



4S 



33 •*->^'^^^ 




OAKLAND: 

PACIFIC PRESS PUBI.ISHING COMPANY. 

1888. 






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COF^YRIGHT 

1888. 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 



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INTRODUCTION. 

^ ^ 

It is hard that the poet must choose whether he will 
pitch his key-note high, and be heard at once, though 
not in harmony with nature; or tone himself to her still, 
small voice, and go for a time unnoticed. The path of 
all true greatness lies through the valley of humility. 
We shall make our literature lofty by stooping. I recall 
this truth here because, without doubt, these unpretend- 
ing verses will sound flat enough if the . thought is not 
pitched to their key; and it is worth while to consider 
how much more of the good, wholesome atmosphere of 
ordinary life can be found on this plane. They are not 
poems of heat; but warmth and affection are better than 
passion with daily food; and it is sentiment and reflec- 
tion that we, as a headlong people, most need. How- 
ever, I do not expect very much for this small dish of first- 
fruits and flowers, though I do sincerely hope the candid 
eye may find in it some bud or seed of promise. 

At least these verses are not caricatures of our scenes 
and people for the amusement of others and the quiet 
contempt of ourselves. I would speak to, or rather for. 



Introduction. 

my neighbors; though I do not think those at a distance 
need therefore be less pleased to read. They are for 
you, people of the great valleys, where spring loves to 
dwell with magnificence and fruitfulness: I brmg you 
only a chord of the lofty song that shall yet be sung; but 
in the glory of your forecast do not despise small begin- 
nings. They are for you of the foot-hills, whose labors 
have built up islands of fruit in the extensive sea of flow- 
ers and blossoming shrubs; and for you who are neigh- 
bors of the pine and companions of sublimity, in the 
bosom of the mountains, you cannot do a more auspi- 
cious thing than to invite the spirit of humble poetry to 
share your modest lives and lifted thoughts. 

They are for you, my gentle brother, whose more than 
yEolian strings respond not to the evening breezes more 
than to the touch of stars or human love. They are for 
you, whose snows of time and grief and endurance are 
like wool to keep warm the heart and fresh the stocks of 
memory. They are for you, bright girl, whom I have 
seen, or heard of, or dreamed of, as one of the little Red 
Lilies that make our homes lovely and our hills romantic;* 
and why not for you, her statelier sister, whose morning 
of bloom is a more exalted purity of beauty and life, and 

*Lilies and liliaceous flowers grow everywhere in California. That 
is how they have got so frequently into these verses. 



Introduction. 

the alabaster box of whose spirit is the fit enclosure of 
the precious influence that cannot be confined ? If you 
can like and enjoy these you can love and enjoy better 
ones, for they are truthful in thought, and hold the nat- 
ural overflow of the heart. I wish that they were more 
worthy of your regard, more equal to the hues of sky and 
land, more like the songs of birds and the light of heaven; 
and you can help to make such possible. 

No one but the poet can realize for how much these 
few songs stand; — how exquisitely varied are the features 
of nature, yet how fugitive are those we most wish to 
chain; and how many flowers of the mind open, wither, 
fall and leave no sign. Yet, though these pleasing as- 
pects are evanescent, and coy of being pictured, they ever 
hold their own charms, and you may see and feel them 
if you will but loosen the eyes and intend the mind, — not 
anxiously but kindly. Open your senses, and open your 
heart, to the sweet influences, that pulse like music 
through the old oaks and over the fields of wheat; that 
bathe the illimitable forest of evergreens like an aromatic 
dew, and sink to the canyons in mountain-born munifi- 
cence; that rain from the celestial bosom of the morning, 
and drop like starlight from the deeps of night. 

O, happy ranges, and ways under great sycamores and 
through festooning wild grapes, where the manzanita 



Introduction. 

startles with its radiance, and the heart-leaved climbers 
look from under the rock; where the ebon butterfly sails 
luxuriously, and the full-fed cows lie down by the coffee- 
tree; where the cottage is neat and the maidens are 
kind; — why should I leave you in the vain search for a 
more delightful region? But these things that ye have 
spoken to me, I will send forth, peradventure they may 
find lodgment in the mighty heart of the people. 



CONTENTS 

.+_ 



After the Spring Rain. - - - - XLIV 

Another One. ^^^^ 

Bird Mary. - - - - " " .^LVI 

Consolation. XXIII 

VT 

Desolate. ^^ 

From the Summit. ... - XXXI 

Hard Luck. - - - - - " ^^^^ 

Hear the Song-birds. - - - - XXVI 

I Cannot Keep My Eyes Away. - XXXVI 

I Hastened from the Barren Hills. - - XXI 

I Know of a Streamlet. - - - - XXXV 

I Walk and Gather the Lilies. - - XXXIII 

XI 
Incomparable. ^ 

Lift up Your Head, Daughter of the 

Hills. ^^^ 

Look over the Fence. - - - - 

XX 
Maiden-hair ^ 



Contetits. 

Mariposas. VI 

Morning. IX 

My Soul Is Full OF Yearning. - - - XVII 

Night. X 

Old Lassen. XXXII 

Pain and Sorrow. XXIV 

Pardon, Little Flower. - - - XXXIV 

Stagnant. XVI 

Steal into My Dream. .... VII 

Tenderness. IV 

The Beauty of Love. .... XIII 

The Best Gift. XXXVIII 

The Deserted House. .... XXV 

The Dews of Morning. - - - - II 

The Golden-Cup. - - - - - XIV 

The Lichen. V 

The Little Red Lilies. I 

The Loveliness of Sincerity. - - XXXIX 
The Old Couple. - - - - XXXVII 
The Prophecy of Spring. .... xil 
The Stray Roses. XVTII 



Contents. 

The Stub. ^^^ 

The Sun of the Spring-time. - - - XV 

The Thunder-stricken Oak. - - - XLII 
The White Beauty-Grass. - - - XXVII 
They Came by Night and Sang. - - XLV 

Trust. XLIII 

Under the Manzanita. . - - - XXIX 

Under the Urn. XLI 

Where Should Like I Best to Meet 

Thee? XLVII 

Your Path and Mine. - - - XXVIII 




THE LITTLE RED LILIES, 

A LL over the canyons and ridges 1 see 
•^ ^ The little red lilies are thick as can be. 
Three flowers, and three in the bud, on a stalk, 
I find them as over the mountains I walk. 
They live in the sunshine, these dainty wee folks, 
And in the cool shadows of fresh-leaving oaks; 
They live where the soil is but shallow and hard, 
And the deep mellow loam with their brightness is 

starred; 
But such light and air is around them, you see, 
They're always as pretty as lilies can be. 



And other fresh Lilies I find in my ways. 
That grow into beauty these bonny spring days. 
Five or six cluster around the neat home. 
Some are in bud, and some are in bloom. 



Valley and Mojintains. 

Full many the griefs of misfortune have known, 
And some in luxuriant soil have been grown; 
Some in the sunshine of wonder and praise, 
And some in the milder-sweet kiss of their rays; 
But such light and air is around them, you see. 
They're always as pretty as Lilies can be. 

Oh, come to our fields in the growing of herds. 

And visit our hills in the singing of birds; 

Oh, come to our canyons in wide-open spring, 

When roses their color and redolence bring, 

When the locusts are heavy with honey-sweet smell. 

And the breezes of bee-haunted clover tracts tell; 

When the mimulus goldens the banks of the ditch. 

And the poppies in orange and lemon are rich. 

When the pink and white petals are whirled on the 

stream 
Like the light fairy boats of a summer-day's dream, 
As the orchards are passing from blossom to fruit. 
And the musical winds are as soft as the lute, — 
Come, then, and, among all these flowers, you'll say 
That the little Red Lilies are fairer than they. 



Th€ Dews of Morning. 

II. 

THE DEWS OF MORNING. 

'T^ME south wind gently cools the shade 

-*- Of spreading oaks and roses wild, 
And brings the sweet smell of the glade 
To gladden you, my sweeter child. 

The morning dew is not so fresh, 
So kind it is not to the grass; 

The sunbeams make no golden mesh, 
It is the hair of my bright lass. 

Then let us hand in hand go out 
And be companions of the day. 

The wind and roses, merry rout, 
For you, my girl, are good as they. 

Oh, better, better, much, than these; 

For dewy rose and cooling air 
No longer have the ways to please 

When your becoming ways aren't there. 

The sunshine and the trees are mine 
For life — and life is long they say — 
But those endearing eyes of thine 
Too soon may shut or go away. 



Valley and Mountains. 

When we are man and woman grown, 
You may not like me well as now; 

Alas ! I may be left alone 

To weep and sweat, to reap and plow. 

But let us now go out and play, 

And wander under trees and bowers, 

Aud love each other while we may. 
And kiss each other in the flowers. 



LOOK OJ^ER THE EENCE. 

T OOK over the fence, my girl, my girl! 

Look over the fence as if you would come, 
And I drink delight till my senses whirl, 
And the morning joys are a perfect sum. 
Look over, look over, I'm looking at thee 
And thinking the oak that leans over thy head. 
Is favored beyond all thy favors to me — 
Why can't I stand awhile in its stead? 

I plow the long furrow that leads me away, 

Away to the further side of the field, 

I cannot look back, I cannot delay, 

And the sun and thy face are alike concealed; 



Tenderness. 

A turn comes at last, and I see the oak tree, 

Where I know thou art picking flowers blue as the sky, 
And when I look over the fence at thee 

Wilt thou pause and look up with a joy-beaming eye ? 
Look over the fence, my girl, my girl! 

Look over the fence as if you would come. 
And I drink delight till my senses whirl. 

And the morning joys are a perfect sum. 



TENDERNESS. 

A RE the evening breezes blowing 
Gently through the passion-vines, 
On the pensive spirit throwing 
Music from the harp of pines ? 

Are the glowing star-lights throbbing 

In the amethystine blue, 
And the thirsty blossoms robbing 

From the vapors fragrant dew ? 

Do the sister's silken tresses 

Touch the father's thoughtful brow, 

As she stoops with soft caresses 
And a consecrating vow, — 



Valley and Moiintaim 

Knowing all the incense-laden 
Airs from Araby's great bliss. 

All the joys of storied Eden, 

Could not make more sweet the kiss, 

From the father's great heart swelling 

In a surge of mighty love, 
Half its thankful fondness telling 

Through the eyes to eyes above? 

Is the mother softly singing, 

In the afternoon of years, 
Till the echoes sweetly ringing 

Loosen wells of holy tears? — 

O rejoice, my gentle brother. 
Ere the evil days draw nigh 

That shall hush the voice of mother 
And shall close the father's eye. 

Lay aside the thoughtful sadness. 
Lay the thoughtful book aside, 

Go with smile of tender gladness 
To thy mother, mother's pride. 

Sweeter than the breath of even, 
Fairer than the stars above. 

Gentler than the dews of heaven, 
Is a mother's precious love. 



The Lichen. 

v. 

THE LICHEN. 

OEE this rock, once hard and bare, 
^^ That a lichen maketh fair! 
From the center spreading wide 
O'er the top and down the side, 
It wraps it, yellow fold to fold 
Like a living cloth of gold. 
Let it catch a little dew, 
Let the sunlight strike it through, 
And the dainty fringe grows wide 
Across the top and down the side, 
Day by day and year by year, 
Till the stone doth scarce appear 
Less than something glorified. 

Such the poet's humble part. 
By his growth and plastic art, 
From the center movmg out 
Through the world that lies about, 
Making radiant the whole 
With the beauty of the soul. 
Let the foldings of the mind 
Some few drops of love but find. 
Let the warmth of pleasure thrill 
Through the fibers of the will, 



Valley and Mountains. 

And the flowering of the soul 
Reaches slowly far and wide, 
Day by day and year by year, 
Till it permeates the whole. 
And the world doth scarce appear 
Less than something glorified. 



MARIPOSAS. 

T S it a flock of butterflies 

-*• Hovering there in the morning, 

Purple and golden the dyes 

Fluttering winglets adorning? 
Airily, lightly they rise. 

Just as if wings were but scorning. 

Purple and milk-dripping white, 
Flicker their pinions of splendor; 

Scarcely they seem to alight, 
Each on a flower-stalk slender; 

Black and gold beam the eyes bright 
Out of the mists dewy-tender, — 

Eyes of the wings, which are three — 

Yes, now I see they are flowers; 
Butterfly petals they be, 



Steal into My Dream. 

Wet with the crystalline showers. 
Will they not take wings and flee 
Into the shade of the bowers? 

Will they not rise like a cloud, 

Skimming the earth like a swallow. 

Shaking their painted wings proud, 
Challenging zephyr to follow, 

And off in a butterfly crowd 
Over the hill and the hollow? 

No; in the morning we'll find 
Butterfly petals still shining, 

Fluttering there in the wind. 
Just as if they were repining, 

Earth should their radiance bind, 
Freedom and fancy confining. 

VII. 

STEAL INTO MY BREAM. 

T^ NTER gently as the light 
-'— ' Steals into the caves of night; 
Steal so gently, thou sunbeam. 
Through the foliage of my dream; 
Come like fragrance from the woods, 
Come like roses from their buds, 



Valley and Mountains. 

Come as spring came from the South, 
Come as music leaves thy mouth, 
Float as leaves float down the stream, 
Lest thou break my golden dream. 

Gently, gently on me grow 
As the drifting flakes of snow, 
Lightly lay a hand in mine, 
Let an arm as lightly twine 
Like a tendril of the vine; 
Lay a kiss like apple blows 
Or the velvet leaves of the rose; 
Speak as thou art wont, my love, 
Like the cooing of the dove, — 
All shall sweetly join and seem 
Like a portion of the dream. 

Tell the dream? I fear 'twill fly; 
Thou must f'ream as well as L 
See the clover's verdure lave 
In the coolness of the wave; 
See the wild pea's scarlet blow 
Round the slender willow grow. 
See the poppy's golden cup 
Drink its own dew-nectar up; 
See the bee and butterfly, 
With the humming-bird, flit by. 



steal into My Dream. 

Quail are shouting through the oats; 
Orioles dilate their throats; 
Wren and linnet in the tree 
Scarce can sing their ecstasy; 
Scarce the mocking-bird can trill, 
Scarce the cicada can shrill, 
All its love and loud elation. 
All its pride and exultation : 
Life in sound and love in song 
Swell and surge and rush along. 

Spirit of the apple tree. 
Sweeter than its melody, 
Like the breath of thee, my love, 
Comes upon us from above. 
Put the lily on thy breast. 
Like to like and best to best; 
As the whiteness of the skin 
To the love that throbs within. 
Is the flower's snowy bell 
To its pleasure-breathing smell. 

Dip thy hand into the rill, 
On this moss the waters spill; 
Thus the hand of Evening throws 
Liquid on the mossy rose; 
Thus the spring-enamoured hills 



Valley aud Mountams. 

Drop their sighs in airy rills — 
Dainty zephyrs born of love, 
On the cygnet's wing they move, 
Floating by with touch of gown 
Softer than the cygnet's down. 

Song and incense, touch and light, 
Beauty sweet and soft and bright, 
Roll together round and o'er us 
Like the voices of a chorus; 
From the ground it swells on high. 
Drops it from the burdened sky, 
From the mulberry's shade it comes. 
In the insect-cluster hums, 
Nestles in the ground-bird's nest, 
And moves the turtle's tender breast. 



ANOTHER ONE. 



A 



S the sun draws the tree, 
As the flower draws the bee, 
Thou dost draw me to thee. 
By thy charming potency 
And thy silent witchery. 

As the cloud, lustrous bright. 
As the atmosphere's height. 



Morning. 

Thou art all drenched with light; 
Streams it outward through thy face, 
Overruns thy form with grace. 

For one moment divine 
Let me bend at the shrine, 
Let me raise eyes to thine, 
Let me — oh, the crown of bliss! — 
Steal the rapture of one kiss. 

Lips of dew, yet on fire, 
Lighting mine with desire! 
Ah, thy beautiful ire I 

Now, that rashly I've begun, 

I must have another one. 



MORNING. 

THE dawning's culminating crow 
Goes swiftly round from farm to farm, 
Now near, now far, with dying charm. 
The shrillest, last, prolonged alarm 
That day comes on with silvery glow. 

The silent night of rest has gone — 
The night of heaven-descending sleep. 



Valley and Mountains. 

Wherein the spirit settles deep, 
Till dreamy oceans o'er it sweep, — 
And now the lustrous line of dawn 

Grows wide along the mountain-tops, 
And from their azure darkness streams 
With larger day and brighter gleams, 
And filling all the sky with beams, 
Upon the broad earth gently drops. 

Lead out the teams, and let them drink ; 
The crows are scattering to the field, 
The larks fly up from nooks concealed, 
Where feed the cows that come to yield 
Their snowy milk to hands of pink: 

And while we plow beneath the oaks, 
Which lift their brows against the sun, 
And drink the streams of light that run 
In golden waves till day is done. 
Hark to the neighboring farmer folks, — 

How clear the shout! How full the song^ 
Are they not thrilled with landscapes fair, 
And flushed with morning light, as rare 
As sparkling wine, as free as air? — 
This pungent air which flows along 



Morning. 

From seas of spice and Southern plain, 
And on to warm the North to flowers, 
Shaking the dripping willow bowers 
Until the raindrops fall in showers,. 
Though countless brilliants still remain. 

Nepenthe bathed our lids last night, 
And steeped the chambers of the mind — 
Last night the north wind ceased to bind 
The influence of the Pleiads kind. 
That sway the streams of genial might, 

And warmly o'er the new-sown grain, 
Profusely by the shrubs and trees, 
And sweetly through the scented peas. 
Rolled on the softly-rippling seas 
Of heaven-sent, vivifying rain . 

This morning every cloud is gone ; 
They lost themselves in diamond dew. 
Or hastened on to landscapes new, 
And left the balmy deeps of blue 
In stainless purity at dawn, — 

To let the coming glory melt 

In perfect fulness through the sky, 

And to the utmost reach of eye, 



Valley and Mountains. 

Around, above, serenely lie, 
That every motion may be felt. 

Yet with no vivid harshness smite 

The delicately wakened sense, 

That takes the hovering immense 

Of this divinest effluence 

From God's great bosom-source of light. 

The softly-blowing summer breeze, 
Against the widely-reaching sail, 
May carry, without hurt or fail, 
More quickly than the tearing gale, 
The buoyant ship to farthest seas. 

So, on thy mellow radiance, 
Benignant lord of eastern skies, 
Though prostrate, and with covered eyes, 
We may submissively arise 
To worship's own supreme expanse. 



NIGBT. 

SINCE evanescent jewels lay 
On every grass leaf, clear and cold, 
The plow has turned the crumbly mould 



Night. 

In polished furrows, fold on fold, 
Through all the greatness of the day ; 

And now the slaty smoke ascends 
From many a plowman's waiting home ; 
Along the blazing orange dome, 
The cranes' majestic vortex clomb, 
And, where the sunlight upward bends, 

Now catch again the lofty ray, 

In alternating sweep profound; 

How like the earth's stupendous round 

Through day to night's celestial ground. 

And slowly on to break of day! 

Turn out. The purple belt grows high 
Above the almost ghostly peaks ; 
In narrowing tracts of flaming streaks. 
The westward-moving splendor wreaks 
His massive glory on the sky. 

Their fragrant warmth the fields resign, 
And fades the soft, diffusive rose 
The over-burdened welkin throws 
Below ; draws on the twilight's close. 
Goes out the low-lit western line, 



Valley arid Mountains. 

And darkness rends the sacred veil, — 
The purple, blue, and scarlet screen 
That parts the world's Jess hallowed scene 
From night's most holy and serene 
Magnificence, which maketh pale 

With power and with astonishment, 
The overrunning springs of morn. 
Or dazzling deep meridian-born; — 
Yet for weak man no ray of scorn 
Is from those luminaries sent, 

Those lamps of rapt infinity. 
That with unwasting oil do brim, 
And light with beauty never dim 
The ever-morning stars that hymn 
Creation's fresh eternity. 



INC O MP A RABLE. 

'X T /"HY try to name thy nameless charms, 

' • Thou peerless girl? 

Why talk of alabaster arms 

And teeth of pearl ? 
For the light of thy form is divinity. 



Incomparable. 

I almost flew to feed my sight 

Of thy full grace, 
And yet some contrasts in the flight 

I had to trace; 
For thy beauty has no consanguinity. 

How can the oaken sapling, trim 

And delicate, 
I'hy perfect round of liying limb 

Expect to mate ? 
For the pulse of thy veins is rich harmony. 

The corn-silk tresses, falling light 

And golden fair, 
Suggested faintly thy soft, bright, 

And glorious hair, 
That an anadem is of thy sovereignty. 

With all its liquid depth, the sky 

Of heavenly hue 
Is less of heaven than thy eye 

Of clearer blue; 
For it melts with the light of love's sympathy. 

I cannot brook the sun's steep blaze, 

But drop my eyes; 
Yet in thy face I ever gaze 



Valley and Mountains. 

With new surprise; 
For a soul shows thereout immortality. 

The snow lies on the mountain height 

As pure as cold; 
The snow upon thy bosom bright 

Doth warmly fold 
A loving heart throbbing mild chastity. 

XII. 

THE PROPHECY OF SPRING. 



"T^EWY-fertile rays are shed 
•^^^ From the outer skies of light, 
Through a bloom of orange red 

That suffuses soul and sight; 
Falling, falling night and morn, 

Falling from the top of noon, 
P'alling till the leaves are born 

On the mountain -hung festoon, 
That from range to range depends 

In a mighty sweep of greens — 
To the evergreen ascends. 

To the Sacramento leans. 

Brightness of the firmament. 
Splendor of the crystal dome. 



The Propiecy of Spring, 

Through the azure air is sent 

To my best-beloved home; 
Falling, falling, late and soon, 

Falling from the top of noon, 
To be shattered as it strikes 

Into clusters, cups and spikes, 
Radiant with the seven-fold show 

Of the cloud-impainted bow. 

Rosy kindlings for the blood, 

Deepest whispers, richest love, 
Beauty bursting from the bud. 

Melt upon me from above; 
Melting, melting, night and morn. 

Melting in the warmth of noon. 
Till a trembling tone is born. 

Tender with the spell of tune. 
Hear the music liquid-soft 

Through the boundless bowers ring, 
But I ask — how long and oft! 

When will man the singer sing? 



2. 



All winter the land invites me to come, 

And my heralds are out to the Tuscan Buttes, 

And soon I move on to my favorite home, 

To the twinkling of buds and the music of lutes. 



Valley and Mountains. 

From time out of memory, thus have I pressed 
To this garden of turtles and land of the vine, 

And, sweet in the verdure and simple flowers dressed. 
Have ruled where the stars and the sun brightest shine. 

The fragrance of May and the gladness of song, 

To all of my wilderness ever I bring; 
But a throbbing assurance has kindled me long, 

That here, soon, the man, the sweet singer, will sing. 



No youth or age is known to me, 

A blooming immortality; 

Though, forced to leave them when I fly, 

My lovely children often die, 

Or shrink in cold, and pine in heat. 

Till flushed with joy again we meet. 

But when those mountain heights were new, 

And from my valley first withdrew 

The sea, and, ebbing to the west, 

Sunk into ages more of rest, 

A breed of hunters found their dens 

Among the mountain rocks and glens. 

Or by the gentler streams below 

Pursued the deer with craft and bow. 

Of all my gifts they asked- but roots 

And scanty summer-ripened fruits; 



The Prophecy of Spring. 

Sometimes they eat the clover top 

And gathered in the locust crop; 

But wrapped in gloom and apathy, 

They cared no more for mine or me. 

They lifted not their downcast eyes, 

To see the glory of my skies; 

They turned no eager ears to hear 

My winged warblers warbling clear, 

Nor through their sluggish frames could feel 

My balmy breath pervading steal; 

They could not catch the chime of spring. 

They could not thrill, they could not sing. 



4. 



And still I kept my beautiful estate. 
And opened wide the mountain-pillared gate 
Which ties my fairest realm with flawless bond 
To all the seas of calm that lie beyond; 
That others worthy might approach and see 
My overrunning generosity, 
And find a land prepared and waiting long 
For Justice, noble Men, and deathless Song. 
And lo, they came: a race of goodly mold, 
With powers of thought and feeling manifold, 
With face as fair and open as the day. 
And skill to win from fate a peerless sway. 



Valley and Mountains. 

They came, this race of lordly, god-like men; 

They came in ocean-ships and went again; 

They came from far to south, with solemn chant, 

To build the mission and the vine to plant. 

I heard the roar of their approaching tide 

Away to east, beyond the deserts wide; 

And from my lofty holds I saw them press 

Into the caverns of the wilderness, 

And through the tractless solitude toil on 

With restless ardor towards the setting sun, 

Till, struck with wonder, wild with golden hopes, 

They hurried, panting, down the western slopes. 

They line the passes with their caravans; 

They crowd the foot-liills with their busy clans; 

They drop into the canyons' monstrous seams, 

And curb the fury of their foaming streams; 

They pass their mouths, which open wide and high, 

To where the plains in vernal freshness lie; 

They scatter through the oaks and find the soil 

Repays a handsome fold the prudent toil ; 

They plant the growths of mild or tropic clime, 

And use the means and thought of every time; 

They heap their granaries with every grain 

That may the deepening weight of life sustain; 

The pastures swarm with man-assisting brutes. 

The gardens riot in excess of fruits; 

They build their houses pleasing to the eye, 

And beautify their homes to luxury; 



The Prophecy of Spring. 

They love with ardor and the good desire — 
This stirring people wrought to brain and fire; — 
They walk the fields with gratitude and praise, 
And feel a kindness for the herds that graze; 
They warm with pleasure at the meadow flowers, 
And tread superbly through the oaken bowers; 
They bless the lark that pours his liquid note 
Sweet from the golden chalice of his throat; 
They look away to mountain-tops of snow 
And catch the spirit of their rosy glow; 
Their bosoms heave to see my rich, warm breast, 
With lilies breaking through the fragrant vest, — 
Their bosoms heave and words seem taking wing, 
To mount in exultation and to sing! 
And when they sing, 'twill be like honey bees 
At work among the blossoms of sweet-peas; 
'Twill be like trusting linnets that implore 
The privilege to build above the door; 
Like rills of whispering waters seen between 
The parted roof of woven evergreen; 
Like swelling rosebuds ready to unfold 
The prisoned redolence their centers hold; 
Like trees, in bloom and honey frolicsome, 
That wrap the promises of fruit to come; 
Or pastures, where the milk-cows come and go 
And eat the grass and flowers that neighbor grow; 
Where rabbits burrow and the song-birds build, 
And all the oaks with gentle winds are filled; 



Valley and Mountains. 

Where lovers like to walk the winding ways 
That lead through shady groves and maze oa maze 
Of wild grapes swinging to the stream below, 
And berry-brambles flaked with scented snow. 

And louder chords these earnest men may strike, 
Whose sympathies the wider prospect like; 
For free they go, absorbed in deepest themes, 
And people Heaven and earth with lofty dreams. 



THE BEAUTY OF LOVE. 

THE turtle likes the wormwood, 
Though why, I cannot guess; 
And, fairer than the turtle, 
Thou lovest bitterness. 

But tenderness is stronger, 
And maketh clean t'le dove, — 

Thou knowest not the greatness, 
The loveliness of love. 

The gall which stains thy bosom. 
Put to those lips of scorn. 

And thou shalt taste the portion 
To which mankind is born. 



The Golden- Cup. 

Yet by the springs of Marah 
The trees of love may grow, 

Whose leaves of healing sweeten 
The waters' bitter flow. 

Enough must drink the waters ; 

Oh, press it not in spite! 
But plant the seeds of pity, 

The trees of cleansing might. 

Then men shall say thy beauty 

Is truly loveliness, 
And love return, like dewdrops, 

To soften and to bless. 



THE GOLDEN-CUP. 

I THOUGHT it bright and gay. 
When a child ; 
It made a golden May 

While it smiled ; 
For the world was fine and fair. 
There was freshness everywhere, 
And no one had told me air 
Was stale and cheap. 



Valley and Mountains. 

I deemed it poorly gay 

When a youth, 
For I trod it in the way, 

And, in truth, 
Scorned it for a gaudy weed, 
Worthy of no love or heed. 
With no beauty, use, or need, 
Except for sheep. 



I think thee bright and gay. 

Now a man ; 
Without thy golden May 

In the plan, 
There were lack and loss to me, 
Like the lack of flower to bee, 
Or the loss of dew to lea 
While clover grows. 

Thy gift is color, — gold. 

Rich and warm, — 
Thy fragile cup does hold, 

Airy form. 
Dewy drops that kiss a leaf. 
Soft and smooth as silken sheaf. 
Or a maiden's cheek ere grief 
Worm-eats the rose. 



The Sun of the Spring-time. 

Thou art as sunshine, free, 

Bold, and bright ; 
Thy simple alchemy 

Maketh light 
Plains of dark green hay and gram. 
And to mow you off is pain, 
Though abundant more remain 
In other ways. 

Thus around the mountain high 

We may go. 
Till the plains of childhood lie 

Just below ; 
And the roving breezes oft 
Bear sweet memories aloft. 
From the meadows, green and soft, 
Of simpler days. 

XV. 

THE SUN OF THE SPRING-TIME, 

THE sun of the spring-time is mellow and warm, 
And fills the strong pulse like the streams aftpr 
storm; 
He stirs the mild fountains of fancy and joy. 
And gives to the man the romance of the boy. 



Valley and Mountains. 

He enters the valley, the flowers are gay ; 
He touches the mountains, the snows melt away ; 
He strikes every zone of the quickening earth, 
And life is renewed with a manifold birth. 

But the sun of the summer is haggard and fierce. 
And his ardor- winged rays, with a poignancy pierce, 
That scorches the marrow, and empties the veins. 
That simmers the rivers, and parches the plains. 

So love in its spring-time is genial and warms, 
And every movement with pleasure informs; 
It threads the recesses of memory and dream, 
And lightens their shadows with brightness of beam. 

It oreathes over evening the freshness of morn, 
Dissolves into beauty all coldness and scorn, 
Unfolds the deep ecstasy throbbing for scope, 
And kindles the radiant flamings of hope. 

But love in its summer is heated to lust, 
And all of its pathways are blinded with dust ; 
Its flowers are withered, its fountains are dry. 
And the anguish of frenzy broods over the sky. 

— ^Love's gently-sweet buddings may always appear, 
The glory of spring-time may fill all its year. 
Its freshness of blossom may ever be blown, 
And its smouldering anguish forever unknown. 



SiagJiant. 



STAGNANT. 

nr^HE dust hangs low, in a smothering cloud, 

-■- On the plains of Tehama, at noon, as I ride. 
And the sun heaps together the surges of heat, 
Till they blister my brow like a crown of pride. 

My mustang blows, pantingly, flakes of hot foam 
From the bit-burdened mouth and nostrils intense, 

But his stiff, flagging lope takes the spring of a bound, 
For the subtile aroma of water he scents. 

Shall we dip in the clear and thirst-quenching stream. 
That from the Sierras' dark snow-caverns leaps? 

Shall we rest on its grassy and flower-strown banks, 
While I bathe hands and face in the cool, tranquil 
deeps? 

Not so; but a vapory stench spreads around, 

From a shallow, and slimy, and motionless sink, 

And even the horse turns away in disgust 

From the seething scum, and refuses to drink. 

When, strange! from the waters a murmur I hear, 
A murmur and moan, like a stricken one's cry ; 



Valley and Mountains. 

And richer than music the tender complaint 

Of the passionate protest that comes on the sigh. 

** Soulless were the clouds that rained me 
In a heartless prison rude, 
Like the ghastly fate which chained me 
To this loathsome solitude! 

" Had I but the wild wind's pinions, 
I would doff this stupor soon, 
Fly the heart of Death's dominions. 
Fly this burning, stifling noon! 

' High career, with splendor burning, 
Would be mine again, once more, 
To the course of Life returning, 
There to leap, to swim, to soar, — 

** Earth-encircling heavens nearing, 
By the foam-caps hotly tracked. 
On the hurricane careering, 
Plunging in the cataract, 

" Oil through forms of beauty breathing, 
Shapes of glory infinite — ■ 
Rainbows arching, halos wreathing. 
Hand in hand with life and light. 



Stagnant. 

" Purer than the veinless marble, 

Soft I'd press the mountain's breast, 
Or, in love dissolved, I'd warble, 
BirJ-like, downward to the nest — 

** To some lake with heaven glowing, 

While it cherished earthly forms. 

Forms of forests round it growing. 

Forms of mountains clothed in storms. 

*' Oh, I'd pour myself in showers 
Procreant on the arid earth, 
Till the desert, lost in flowers, 
Gave an Eden-offspring birth! — 

" In celestial drops descending 
To the violet's yearning heart, 
O'er the trampled clover bending 
Wiih a mist-balm for its smart; 

" Life in lowliest forms renewing 
With a kiss divinely deep, 
Or the lily-petals dewing, 

While they, wrapped in starlight, iieeo 

" Am I naught beside the ocean ? 
But a drop the floods beside- 



Valley and Mountains. 

That from sea to sea in motion 
Endless, endless roll their tide? 

" Will the dream-like peacnes mellow, 
Royal purple robe the grape, 
Pippins ripen golden yellow, 
Though I never should escape? 

"Will the gloaming in the mountains 

Be as fresh with falling dews? 

Will the plain-supplying fountams 

Deepen in the gloom of yews ? 

" Will the heavens' half-open sun-gate 
Slill reveal with colors warm, 
And the maiden-grace concentrate. 
In a blush, their nameless charm? 

" Still will nature's panorama 

Pass men's eyes from year to year, 
Or mankind's stupendous drama 
Yet go on,— though I stay here? 

*' Bitter-sweet of consolation! 
Be it true, yet must I weep ; 
For the numb ache of stagnation. 
Lulled by moans, may sink to sleep. 



Stagnant. 

' Is the world complete without me? 
Let me cease existence, then; 
But if not, though all about me — 
Vital maze from plant to man — 

"Flaunt my high-wrought aspiration, 
Spurn my self-consuming zeal, 
Still must I hug this negation, — 
Love to loveless fate must kneel. 

"For 'tis / that need the tingling 

Rush along the veins of life ; 

Need the fiery joys of mingling 

In creation's rhythmic strife. 

" Foul and loathly am I lying, 

Curst and harsh in my distress; 
Yet for beauty I am dyings 
Famishi)igfor tenderness ! 

" Yonder rise the mounts of glory, 
Where my kin delight to play; 
Yonder pathless splendor o'er me, 
Is their rapt and awful way. 

*' High career, with luster burning, 
Shall be mine again once more, 



Valley and Mountains. 

To the course of life returning, 
There to speed, to mount, to soar; 

** Earth-encircling heavens Hearing, 
By the foam-crests hotly tracked, 
On the hurricane careering, 
Plunging in the cataract! " 

XVII. 

MY SOUL IS FULL OF YEARNING FOR THE 
MOUNTAIN AIR AND SHADE. 

MY soul is full of yearning for the mountain air and 
shade. 
As the deer that scents their pastures when the snow-belt 

has decayed; 
My soul is full of yearning for the land of crystal streams, 
As the stag that flies the bloodhounds, while the hot sun 
drops his beams. 

To lie upon the pine leaves and look up the purple trees, 
To wander where the lilies grow, and take their goodly 

ease. 
To pick the scarlet berries in their luscious juiciness, 
And cHmb the crags of blackened rock their dainty leaves 

caress; 



Yearnings. 

To track the noisy brooklet to its cradle in the hill, 
And catch the new born waters as adown the rock they 

spill; 
To piss with exultation to some overlooking dome, 
And see the mountains' magnitude within its primal home; 



To love the many trees and flowers, and learn their haunts 
and lives — 

The fir tree on the summit raw, the cowslip where it 
thrives; — 

To penetrate the thicket that delights the fern and rush. 

And see the fawn's wild eyes look through the service- 
berry brush; 

To hear the poor-Willey's plaintive note among the sigh- 
ing boughs. 
Or down the valley, far away, behold the feeding cows; 
To dive into the hollow and surmount the ridge of Drake, 
Until the lines of evergreen inclose a sky-blue lake; 

To travel on with song and thought until the pulses dance, 
Within gigantic glooms the sun smites through with many 

a lance ; 
To see the marble glory in the summer cloud-heaps rolled, 
And hear the distant thunder through the mountain vast- 

ness told; — 



Valley and Mountains. 

O this, and be a digger, with a venison for meat, 

Were more than all this burning plain and granaries of 

wheat! 
The land is like an oven where the ashes fly in clouds, 
And people gather in the grain in panting harvest-crowds! 

Oh for the cooling rivulet to bathe the throbbing head! 
Oh would the mountain-carpet for a season were my bed! 
The freshness of the forest haunts me like a pleasant 

dream; 
Its fragrance blows around me as an eagerness supreme. 

XVIII. 

^ THE STRA Y ROSES. 

nPHERE are roses on the hillside, 
-■- Some one planted, years ago; 
I alone have found the thicket. 

And can tell you where they grow. 
Though their odors load the breezes, 

And are carried high and low. 

All my thoughts are tilled with sweetness. 

When I hunt the feeding kine, 
By a peep at those stray roses, 

And their exhalations fine, 
Which around my inmost feelings. 

With caressing softness twine. 



Daughter of the Hills. 

There are hidden men and women 
Straying from their fitting clime, 

With a beauty of the ages 
Waiting on the fools of time, 

And their stainless words and actions 
Dropping in the dirt and slime. 

They are like those lonely roses, 
Lighting up the rustic bower. 

And my life is filled with glory 
When I meet them for an hour, 

Or the fragrance of their bounty 
Sweeps across my path with power. 



LIFT UP YOUR HEAD, DAUGHTER OF THE 
HILLS. 

DO not hang your head of beauty, daughter of the 
hills! 
Brush away the tears of wormwood at unworthy ills; 
Though my heart is overflowing with compassion strong, 
You are better than the neighbors who have done you 
wrong. 

You are noblest of ten thousand, loveliest that I know, 
And the virgin heart is modest as the breast of snow; 

\ 



Valley and Mountains. 

Hang not down your head of beauty, sadness at my side, 
Save to shame the wanton faces held aloft in pride. 

Strangers have the spacious orchards and the mines of 

gold, 
And have turned you to a cabin with derision cold; 
But their silk is rags upon them, and their gold is dross; 
Rotten fruit is in the garden, and the gain is loss. 

Joy they cannot plunder — blessed are the pure in heart; 
And the crumbling desolation frowning here apart, 
Like the ruined gates of ravage, death himself has trod, 
Is redeemed with lingering traces of the smile of God. 

Pleasantly the live-oak branches o'er the cottage roof; 
May a shielding pinion like it make you mischief-proof; 
See! a bunch of everlastings tarries by this stone, 
As your ever-blooming goodness sheds a fragrance lone. 

There the ledges hang with maiden-hair so delicate. 

To the vestal might it fairly make itself a mate; 

And the dripping grottoes under might be made the 

cells 
For those fair immortal beings of the woods and wells. 

1 will turn the trickling streamlet through this barren 
place, 



Daughter of the Hills. 

And the water's magic powers soon will change its face. 
I will plant a fruitful vineyard of the muscadel, 
Which are luscious in the mouth and give a pleasant 
smell. 

Peaches, like the blush of evening, soon shall load the 

trees; 
Wide-leaved fig-trees, spreading coolness, shall entice 

the breeze; 
Flowers shall please the sense with colors and aromas fine, 
And yourself shall live among them as their queen 

divine. 

Peace shall find your widowed mother, though the toil 
be hard. 

And from none whose thoughts are worthy shall be less 
regard 

Than when fortune was so lavish of her partial grace. 

And you moved the blameless spirits of her dwelling- 
place. 

I've not leagues of fertile land and heaps of golden dust, 
For I could not justly have, and could not be unjust; 
But to lift that head of beauty and restrain those tears, 
Would repay me for the anguish of a mean world's 

sneers; 
For you're noblest of ten thousand, loveliest that I know. 
And the virgin heart is modest as the breast of snow. 



Valley and Mountains. 



THE MA WEN- HA IR. 

THE cliffs are black and steep; 
The rocks are coarse and brown; 
They menace up and down 
A hard, repellant frown, 
As if they meant to keep 

Each social thing away. 
Of less forbidding sight, 
Lest it should scorn their plight. 
Its self-contentment smite. 

Its beauty kill, their day. 

No doubt they feel a want 
And yearn for tenderness, 
For some divine caress; 
'Twould make their hardness less; 

But then they fear the taunt 

That censures them for fate, 
And so they close their hearts 
On inner cries and smarts 
And outer dews and darts, 

And look the look of hate. 



The Maiden-hair. 

I know of men like this, 
O God! and women too, 
Who wall their souls from view, 
And feel no tender dew 

Descend with gentle kiss. 

But softly! What is there, 
That locks of beauty throws 
With touch of falling snows 
Across the face of woes ? 

It is the maiden-hair. 

It roots into a chink, 
Nor minds the stern rebuff; 
It seems to like the rough 
Old codger of a bluff, — 

It finds an ooze to drink! 

The rock is not so grim. 
How picturesque it looks! 
How natural these crooks! 
How charming are these nooks, 

Enwreathed about the rim! 

O love, to love is bliss! 
O gentleness unbought, 
O courtesy for naught, 
O sympathy unsought, 

Behold yourselves in this. 



Valley and Maintains. 



I HASTENED FROM THE BARREN HILLS, 

I HASTEN ED from the barren hills, 
A-hunger for the juicy grape; 
I passed the ever-crushing mills. 

And to the vineyard made escape, 
With thoughts of ripe and luscious globes, 

In purple constellations set 
Within the green and russet robes, 

Where broad and handsome grape leaves met. 

I came too late! I came too late! 

The harvest had been gathered in; 
The sun v^rill shine, nor seasons wait 

For men and wisdom to begin. 
The scanty bunches that I found 

Could tanta'ize, but not content; 
I kicked the clods, and looked around. 

Until my wrath and strength were spent. 

But there's a rage that will not cool, 

That makes me sometimes curse the world, 

A thousand throes of pleasure full, 
If once to action they were hurled; 

A fulness that demands relief, 



Hc:rd Luck. 

An eagerness the means to win, — 
There's not the fragment of a sheaf: 
The harvest all is gathered in! 

Be chastened, passion, sow and wait: 

Abundant crops will yet be raised; 
The sun still shines, the earth is great, 

The thousand wants may yet be praised; 
The hot and sultry week will end, 

A cool, refreshing thunder-storm; 
The pent-up lightnings yet may spend 

In ardent service multiform. 

XXII. 

HARD LUCK. 

I SAW a man with pick and pan, 
Go smiling to the mine, sir; 
A golden gleam lit up his dream, 

And through his smile did shine, sir. 
I saw a man, sans pick and pan, 

Come downcast from the mine, sir; 
The eye could hold his pile of gold, 
I judge, from every sign, sir. 

\ saw a man who lightly ran 
Into the wide, wide world, sir; 



Valley and Mountains, 

The happy while, a youthful smile 

About his lips was curled, sir. 
I saw a man, low-bowed and tan, 

Return with many a sigh, sir; 

*' The world," he said, "is stone, not bread," 

And laid him down to die, sir. 



CONSOLA TION. 



THE ruffled linnet sits in the sun. 
And softly warbles, in rippling run, 
The canary's full diapason. 

The goats chew their cuds in the shade of the rock. 
The kids run out, like a stream, from the flock, 
And part, as the white-cap splits at a shock. 

The sun goes up on the hill to put 

A raiment of gold, reaching down to its root, 

On the tree that grows at the old cliff's foot. 

Some merciful drops, with an anodyne fall. 
Are bathing a heart that men wretchedly small 
Have sickened with vinegar, tempered with gall. 



Pain and Sorrow. 

XXIV. 

PAIN AND SORROW, 

I'VE met manly Pleasures 
In the hills and field, 
Who have shown the treasures 

Work and play can yield : 
Up the lofty mountain 

Arm in arm we've trod, 
Sipped the same cool fountain, 
Prone upon the sod. 

We have plowed together 

Many a glorious day; 
In the warming weather 

We have made the hay. 
Help and strength they brought me 

To the burden's weight; 
Knack and skill, they taught me, 

Were as good as fate. 

But Pain will thrust in with his mutter 
And features of iron and stone, 

And to his sharp warnings I utter 
The protest of grumble and groan; 

But sometimes a look of compassion 
Will break on my half-spoken curse, 



Valley and Mountains. 

And I feel, in a dim, guilty fashion. 

That Pain comes to save me from worse, 

Joys have kissed me greetly 

On the brow and mouth, 
Giving breath more sweetly 

Than the budding South. 
Gently have they led me 

To the quiet wood. 
Daintily have fed me 

Of immortal's food. 

Deeper still they kissed me 

On the lips and brow. 
Softer yet they pressed me. 

With a softer vow, 
Till the passion's morning, 

Wakened fresh and strong. 
Heard a solemn warning, 
" This has reached the wrong! " 

And Sorrow is standing beside me. 

With tears on her half angel face, 
And the accents and motions that chide me 

Are noble to more than a grace. 
May I give the free hand of repentance, 

And bow, without thinking a curse, 
To take Sorrow's blessing and sentence. 

If Sorrow can save me from worse. 



The Desert Cil HoH3t 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 

WHY they abandoned the house I know not; 
They were of tempers to vahie the spot; 
Theirs were the spirits for which beauty is, 
Theirs were the bosoms that throb ecstasies; 
Theirs were the hearts where sublimity sleeps, 
Or touched by the mountains to wakefulness leaps; 
Theirs were the fingers to train nature's vine, 
Theirs were the hands to press out human wine, 
Theirs were the veins that could make it divine. 



But they have gone; and the song and guitar 
Call no more unto love's dew-dropping star; 
Gone, and the roses run wantonly wild, — 
Deep in red drifts are the glowing leaves piled; 
Over the roof-tree they meet and embrace, 
Up for the top of the locust they race, 
Round the porch lattice they tangle and mass, 
The entrance is compassed, and no one may pass, 
Windows are covered, the house is made dark. 
No one the desolate chambers may mark; 
They alone peer through the duskiness dumb, 
Wond'ring, perhaps, when the maidens will come. 



Valley and Mountains. 

No, not alone, for the linnets are there — 
Many a beautiful brown and red pair, 
Wooing and billing in dainty-free sort: 
Bird-life and love-time are ardent, if short. 
Song, and away for the cotton-weed stems, 
Built in the casket of sky-colored gems; 
More song, and off for a morsel of food 
To drop in the mouths of a downy pink brood; 
Song still; the little ones think they can fly 
Well as the rose leaves that go floating by; — 
Song without ceasing from morning till night, 
Song in the bushes, and song in the flight. 
Nests they have everywhere in and around 
Roses and house, where a spot can be found 
Cozy and shaded, among the fresh leaves, 
Or over the scantlings and under the eaves; 
Not quite as thick as the roses, they show, 
Though like the roses they blossom and grow. 
Most as if part of the bushes and spray 
Where they so deftly are hidden away. 



Gone are the spirits that ministered grace, 
Spirits of sunshine inhabit the place; 
Gone are the household that made the house home, 
Roses not far from their birthplace may roam; 
Gone are the singers that made the place ring. 
Birds without solitude fervently sing; 



Hear the Song-birds. 

Gone are the beings of generous strain, 
Memories sweeter than roses remain, — 
Sweeter than roses, and genial as light, 
Singing their melodies morning and night. 
Men may depart, but the world glories on 
In ever-renewing delight of the sun; 
Buildings grow silent and crumble away, 
Over the ruin the rosebuds will play; 
Beautiful creatures depart from our view, 
Beauty is ever-abiding and new! 



HEAR THE SONG-BIRDS. 

T T EAR ye the melody 
-'- ^ Out in the trees, 
Richer than minstrelsy, 

Softer than ease? 
Hark to the harmony 

Poured on the breeze. 
Poured from an ecstasy 

Deep as the seas! 



Oh, hear the song-birds, the bright, sunny song-birds. 
Oh, hear the song-birds warbling in the trees! 



Valley and Mountains. 

Oh, hear the song-birds, sweeter than any words, 
Oh, hear the song-birds singing but to please! 

That is the joy of love, 

Pure as the rill 
Rippling from springs above, 

Down by the hill; — 
Gladness so passionate 

Man cannot fill. 
Lest it intoxicate, 

Lest it should kill! 

Sing, sing, sunny things. 

Make the trees ring! 
Some of your revelings 

To me you bring. 
Some of the sweets that please— 

Love and the spring — 
So that my heart to ease, 

I, too, must sing. 



THE WHITE BEAUTY-GRASS, 

WITHIN the mossy nooks and dells 
That hide among the hills, 
This fairest child of sunlight dwells 
Beside the dewy rills. 



The White Beauty-grass. 

Upon a slender stalk it droops, 

As turning from the sight, 
Arid in the leaves of green it stoops, 

A flower of milky white. 

Against the lava-rock it leans 

With tenderness an hour. 
Or in the moss of deep ravines 

It drops its milk-white flower. 
It courts the shade of bush and bluff, 

And to the thicket shrinks, 
Yet from the hill-sides, wild and rough. 

Celestial beauty drinks. 

It is the purest flower that grows, 

And delicate as pure; — 
Its charming veil retirement throws 

No blemish to obscure. 
O dainty drop of lucent white. 

That softens rock and '^ower! 
O queen of buds! O child of light 1 

O lovely, milk-white flower! — 

Still fold the stainless leaves around 

The mystery of thy heart! 
The charm inclosed will soon be found. 

Yet not the charm depart; 



Valley and Mountains. 

The heart will find the sweet of thine, 
That breathes around with power ; 

Thou canst not hide the fragrance fine 
Within thy milk-white flower. 

White souls there are, who love, like thee 

The more secluded ways, 
And in the greenwood fresh and free. 

Sing free, dew-dropping lays; 
Though none may find the holy springs 

Whence all their fragrance flows, 
Yet evermore it taketh wings, 

And through the great world goes. 

And woman, in her modesty, 

Blooms kindly in the vale, 
And makes her loveliness, like thee, 

Her jewel-bosom's mail; 
But sweetness e'en surpassing thine, 

Is woman's queenly dower, 
And evermore it breathes divine 

Around the milk-white flower. 

XXVIII. 

YOUR PATH AND MINE. 

I CRUSHED the swelling tear 
And made my face like stone 



Vottr Path and Mine. 

"Whenever you were near, 
And fainted when alone, 

I spoke with iron tongue, 
To drown the rising moan; 

But heart-chords overstrung 
Broke, throbbing, when alone. 

I saw your path, O Love! 

Into the vale of flowers; 
The rocky heights above 

Were yours, ye sovereign Powers. 

I thirsted for the vale 

And thee, O gracious Love, 

But ardor would not fail 
Those glorious heights above. 

And half way up the steep, 
I hear your voice still call; 

I slowly turn and creep, 
Lest, trembling so, I fall. 

Dear girl, O dare you woo 
Those naked tops sublime ? 

If you were going too 

How easy 'twere to climbl 



Valley and AToitnlains. 

XXIX. 

UNDER THE MANZANITA. 

T WENT to the mountains one summer for lumber, 
-L And wandering off to the afternoon grove, 
There lay by a red manzanita in slumber, 
A being of beauty, a vision of love. 

The pink bells had fallen through all the abundance 
Of waving hair billowing over her rest. 

And the lilies were pouring their milky redundance 
Around the snow peaks of her sun-smitten breast. 

The rose of the rose-bud, through sepals embracing, 
Is sweet as Aurora through clouds of the dawn; 

And so burst the bud of an arm from its casing. 
The pink of the arm from the cloudlet of lawn. 

Deep into the cushion of verdure it melted, 
A jewel of wonder upon the hill thrown. 

As fairily-hued as the bells that down pelted. 

As f racefully turned as the sculptor's wrought stone. 

An atmosphere breathing of loveliness round her 
Fanned every sense to a glow of surprise, 

But the dreamful oppression of poppies that bound her, 
Had fallen with heaviness over her eyes. 



The Stub. 

If eyes were but open and lips were but smiling, 
Though all of her marvelous body should rest, 

The innocent heart, with no thought of beguiling, 
Might whisper my own from its resolute quest. 

But sacred the spot where her beauty reposes, 
Twice sacred the beauty confiding and chaste; 

May her sleep be as soft as the blossoms of roses, 
And a girdle of lilies encircle her waist! 



THE STUB. 

THOU art a giant trunk 
And wast a mighty tree, 
But now the life has sunk 

And left thee what I see, 
A bare, unleaving stub, 

A rotten monument; 
The meanest living shrub 

Is more than thou art, spent. 
'Twere better thou shouldst fall 

And sink into the ground, 
For dust to dust is all. 

The best that can be found. 
Avails thy eaten pride? 



Valley and Mountains. 

Avails thy towering form, 
That trembling must abide 

The more of sweeping storm ? 
'Twere better thou shouldst lie 

Upon the Mother's breast; 
'Twere better thou shouldst die 

Into the earthy rest. 
And yet I would the force 

Of growth and greening leaf 
Had held a deeper course 

And made its time less brief; 
I would thy roots could thaw 

Into a lively sap; 
I would thy veins might draw, 

And freshness once more wrap 
Thy withered limbs around 

With vigor as of old, 
And all thy top be crowned, 

And all thy life unfold, 
And exultation fling 

Its song to neighbor trees, 
And fragrance spread its wing 

To every passing breeze! 
I would embrace thee hard 

And shout aloud for joy, 
Joining to my regard 

The feelings of a boy! 



Old Lassen. 

But no; thy life is low, 

And gone the light of grace; 
'Twere better thou should.st go, 

And give a child thy place. 



FROM THE SUMMIT. 



THIS is the ancient path of some Awful One, 
Who has left the print of his feet; 
And yonder glorious peak must have been his throne, 
And now remains for his seat. 

How deeper than the pressure of this calm, 
That gash when the mountains swooned! 

But Grandeur pours its healing baKam on 
The fiercely trampled wound. 



OLD LASSEN. 

WHAT is the grandest mountain peak 
That rises over all this region; 
And when its master passions speak, 
Exceeds the thunders of a legion; 
And when it boks abroad can see, 



Valley and Mountains. 

From State to State, a vast expansion 
Where loveliness and majesty, 
In hopes to live eternally. 

Have built themselves full many a mansion ;- 
What is that grandest mountain peak? 
Old Lassen. 

What is it tills the swelling heart 

With energies and large dilations, . 
And drives the shrunken veins apart 

With rapture's swift and sweet pulsations ? 
What is it lifts the startled soul 

With pinions of sublime emotion, 
That rising with diviiie control 
Ascends to v^'orship's lofty goal 

And folds its wings in rapt devotion ? 
What is it fills the ravished soul? 
Old Lassen! 

There is none like his mighty form, — 
Supreme he is with hundreds round him- 

The chief and lord of calm and storm; 
And earth with adamant has bound him 

Fast to the eminence and throne 

Whereon he holds the kingly scepter, 

As if this were her favored zone, 

And she would have him reign alone 



Old Lassen. 

■ Where such exceeding beauty shaped her. 
There is none like thy mighty form, 
Old Lassen I 

Superb in green, fresh valleys lie 

Within the compass of his vision, 
And spread for his admiring eye 
The plenitude of fields elysian; 
While from his never-failing stores, 

He sends them coolness night and mornmg. 
And through the granite of their doors, 
And o'er the emerald of their floors. 

He pours the rivers without warning,— 
Delicious crystal streams pours down 
Old Lassen. 

My eyes lift up astonishment. 

To meet his cloud-shape large and looming, 
Beyond the forest's savage rent. 

When dawn's late shadows still are gloommg; 
Or, climbing nigher through the wild. 

As day's last fragments lose their brightness, 
The neighbor-heights, unequal piled. 
Break sharply down, and there, exiled 

To lonely heavens, the rosy whiteness 
With awe and exaltation clothes 
Old Lassen, 



Valley and Mountains. 

But from the plains remote I see 

The full, long lines of elevation, 
And learn how wise humility 

Arises to the highest station; 
For, resting full against the earth 

And widening ever to her orbit, 
There shows a world-concerning birth 
Of world-embracing work and worth; 

Yet when the world would most absorb it. 
Then, strikingly its crown and summit, stands 
Old Lassen! 



/ WALK AND GATHER THE LILIES. 

YOU ride in the carriage of wealth, 
I walk where I will, as I go; 
You forfeit the roses of health, 

I gather the lilies that grow: — 
Four there by the great fallen tree. 
And two by the chaparral-brush. 
While yonder three others I see, 

And two of their stems I shall crush. 

I kneel to one here by the rocks 

That just broke, in its morning of bloom, 



Pardon, Little Flower, 

The pure alabaster box 

Of noble and precious perfume; 
I will leave this to live its bright day 

And fill the whole place with its scent, 
While I take but the pleasure away 

Its beauty and fragrance have lent. 

Ride on with your languor and pelf, 

The earth and its vigor is best; 
I'll give you some lilies myself, 

But they'll fester along with the rest. 
To show them a modest esteem, 

As companions and friends be they met; 
You must stoop in religion and dream, 

And pick them with tender regret. 

Ride on; the green forest is wide 

And the mountain abysses are deep; 
You can lose there, it may be, your pride, 

If a thought to the lilies you keep : 
I will walk through the archways of pine 

And partake of my bountiful right. 
For the lilies and mountains are mine 

By virtue of love and delight. 

XXXIV. 

PARDON, LITTLE FLOWER. 



o 



PARDON, little flower. 
The fate that's happened you! 



Valley and Mountains. 

For, looking up the sugar-pine, 
I crushed you ere I knew. 

I once despised the day 
And workl of little things, 

Forgetting Feather River 

Gathers up the smallest springs. 

I'll cease to stare at mountains 
While trampling azure bells, 

For wonder lies among their leaves 
As in the ether-wells. 



/ KNOW OF A STREAMLET. 

I KNOW of a streamlet that comes from the hills, 
Whose branches are fed by the cold, sparkling rills, 
Whose course is through sunshine and shadow awhile. 
Till on the green meadow its clear waters smile. 

With loud animation and music it goes, 

And swift through the white foaming eddies it flows; 

But calm and serene are the exquisite deeps, 

Where, on the broad meadow, the pure water sweeps. 

Full many gay flowerets adorn the green bank. 
And clustering willows and alders in rank, 



/ Cannot Keep My Eyes Aiuay. 

But only below, where the waters half rest, 
Do lilies of loveliness float on its breast. 

I know of a girl who abides on this stream, 
Whose life is supplied with the fancy and dream. 
Whose sweet exultation and music are shown 
In the glance of the eye and the thrill of the tune. 

Full many bright blossoms spring up by the way. 
And swiftly the feet dance the music of May, 
But only in womanhood's glory of rest 
Shall lilies of loveliness grow on her breast. 



/ CANNOT KEEP MY EYES A IV A Y. 

I CANNOT keep my eyes away 
From thee, my charming girl; 
I bring them home and tell them, Stay, 
"^Ihey act as if I bade them stray. 
For back to thee they whirl. 

The eyes have power to take and give, 
Have power to wound and heal, 

Have power to kill or cause to live, 

Such is their high prerogative 
From which none may appeal. 



Valley and Mountains. 

But mine go off to play the scout — 
Remembering you are human — 
To ask the eyes and all about 
If you will make, beyond a doubt, 
A truly noble woman. 

XXXVII. 

THE OLD COUPLE, 

ANNIVERSARY, 

WINTRY snows were on the earth, 
Wintry skies were overhead, 
When, in kindly joy and mirth. 

We were wed. 
Love with spring does not depart; 
Winter cannot chill the heart; 
Nay, the pulse is warmer then. 
As the fires are built again. 

Through the summer love had grown. 

Autumn found it mellow gold, 
Stored when winter's winds had blown 

From the cold. 
Love with spring does not depart; 
Winter cannot chill the heart; 
Nay, its fruits are richest then, 
Like the stores heaped in the bin. 



The Old Couple. 

Toil and sorrow through our lives 
Like the winter's cold has come, 
But affection's glow survives 

In our home. 
Grief and hardship cannot bind 
Patience, comfort, peace of mind; 
Nay! hut so they stronger grow, 
Like the tree which tempests blow. 

Jewels of our marriage vows. 

Flowers that to us sweetly clung, 
Frost-nipt, withered from our boughs 

While so young! 
But they're nearer, dearer still; 
Loss cannot our memory chill ; 
Nay, for death a bloom can give 
Fairer than the flowers that live. 

Age has scattered here and there — 

Like the snows on dark hills set — 
Flakes of whiteness through our hair 

Once of jet. 
Children, children's children, say, 
"Worthy are the hairs of gray; 
Nay, a double honor-hood 
Crowns the old age of the good.'' 

Years and cares may lay some lines 
Where were roses, once, a.id grace; 



Vallsy and Mountains. 

Loving-kindness, now, each finds 

In the other's face. 
Fresh in winter as the pine, 
Richer flavored as old wine, 
Love like ours can ne'er grow cold, 
Hearts like ours will ne'er grow old. 

Freezing winter is without 

Knocking at our door to-night; 
Let him freeze, our hearts are stout, 

Warm and light! 
Joy with summer does not go, 
Sadness comes not with the snow. 
Hearts like ours will ne'er grow cold, 
Love like ours can ne'er grow old. 



THE BEST GIFT. 

THE meadow gives us goodly flowers, 
The mountains give their streams, 
The clouds give down refreshing showers, 

The sun gives of his beams; 
And richer gifts than flowers and light 

And showers from above, 
Are those that Mary gave to-night,— 
She gave me looks of love. 



The Loveliness of Sincerity, 

How pleasant and how precious are 

The gifts that kindness sends! 
And if the night gives forth a star 

It makes complete amends; 
But sweetest flowers themselves impart 

In fragrance pure as May, 
And noblest is the loving heart 

That gives itself away. 



THE LOVELINESS OF SINCERITY. 

THE truth of your face was never before 
So deeply beautiful to me as now, 
And the worth of sincerity ever'forbore 
To write such a majesty under your brow: 

For you came to my dreams last night, and your eyes 
Had the look of those that I scorn for their guile, 

And when I looked up with a wounded surprise 
The cunning of others had tainted your smile. 

I spoke with a bitterness anguish-born, 

For I seemed as if left forever alone; 
You answered as if you were hiding a scorn. 

And simplicity's going had changed the tone. 



Valley and Mountains. 

Oh! if it were true I should lose my sense, 

Or pray that the senses might never take note; 

For the moment that worship departed hence, 
I should wish that existence were just as remote. 

If I have not valued as high as I ought 
Your beauty of innocence, artlessly clear, 

Forgive the confession and dream I have brought. 
For never before could I prize it so dear. 

The lakes of your heed are too great to be roiled, 
The stream of your thought too serene for disguise, 

And the sunlight of candor will never be foiled 
As it drops in the fathomless wells of your eyes. 

XL. 

DESOLA TE. 

SHE lives where the avalanche slips to the lake, 
But not at the roar of its rush does she quake; 
Where melted snow torrents run angrily down, 
She minds not their threatening fury and frown; 
Tornadoes may twist the great firs from the stump. 
And peal through the woods like the world's final trump, 
She heeds not and hears not the elements' cries, — 
She looks up the trail for a moment and sighs. 

She lives where the bracken uncurls in the spring. 
And the shooting-stars close to the mother-soil cling; 



Desolate. 

"Where bountiful lilies of yellow and white 

Reveal in the forest what cities would blight; 

Where clusters of gentian empurple the sod, 

And the meadows are rich in the bright golden-rod, — 

She plucks the forget-me-nots, gently-blue eyes, 

And fills them with tears from her own as she sighs. 

"Forget me! forget thee! oh, can we forget 
Those eyes that in tenderness our eyes have met ? 
Those arms that in transport have wrapped us around ? 
Those tones that have thrilled us with passionate sound ? 
Those lips that in love have been pressed to our own ? 
That loveliness love o'er each action has thrown? 
Forget them before feeling or memory dies ? " 
Yet she looks on the flowers and heavily sighs. 

** My spirit was soft as the mount's evening glow. 
Yet free from all stain as its moon-lighted snow, 
And I thought the lake's waters, while mobile as he, 
In their crystalline deeps were less stainless to see; 
But love is most beautiful unto the pure, 
And love in the bosom of love feels secure. 
Till betrayed by himself, see, love bleeding lies! " 
And from her torn breast rise the eloquent sighs. 

** Like two mountain branches of one lofty stream, 
We flowed to each other with yearning supreme; 
Each gave up his being to love's blending tide. 



Valley ami Mountaws. 

And sweet inclination through joy was our guide; 

The landscapes of Eden, that bordered our way, 

In morning affection's clear tenderness lay; 

And yet we could part, though entwined with such ties." 

And she looks on her thoughtful boy's feature and sighs. 

** How wearily long are the years that I wait! 
Yet time cannot change my affection to hate; 
Come back and forgiveness thy plea shall not spurn. 
Come back and the light to the sky shall return; — 
The frost on my father's bowed head is not age, 
The pain of my heart-break no sobs can assuage, 
The child of our rapture has tears in his eyes 
And seems ever waiting, and wearying sighs." 



UNDER THE URN. 

BEAUTY, like the water fern, 
In the hue of driven snow, 
Lies beneath this chiseled urn 
Mouldering slow. 

Graceful feet that brushed the flowers 

Now below the flowers rest. 
Hands that trained the virgin-bowers 
Cross the breast. 



Under the Urn. 

Rare the live-oak, top and trunk, 

While its shade fell on her head; 
But, decaying while she sunk, 
Now it's dead. 

While its evergreen was fair, 

Sweet the turtle's hidden tone, 
Now among the branches bare 
See him moan! 

So my heart is bare and dead, 

W^here the tender tendrils grew, 
And the kindest words she said 
Stab me through. 

All the sunlit passion-fire. 

And the rapture's heavenly glow. 
Dark in ashes, now expire 
Here below! 

Where the heart's true throbbings pour. 

That dear head shall no more rest, 
But the thought shall evermore 
Rend my breast. 



Valley and Mountains. 



THE THUNDER-STRICKEN OAK. 

I UNDERSTAND your mute appeal, O crushed and 
thunder- stricken oak! 
I know the mighty heart that burst in deep convulsions 
at that stroke; 

I know the sun's all-darkened beams are not more shorn, 

nor less in blame; 
Your will and sinewy frame were strong, but fate is 

stronger, there's no shame. 

If tears were healing for your hurt, — but tears and words 

are nothing worth, 
For pitiless the heavens smote, and unbenignly looked 

the earth. 

You sorrow, great heart — so do I — that aspiration should 

be blight; 
The height we seek, the light we woo, is falling height 

and searing light. 

The overpowering, cherishing, and seed-wrapped thought 

which shaped your boughs, 
Was beautiful with beauty such as draws the lines on 

human brows; 



The Thunder-Stricken Oak. 

Sweet breezes rocked your cradled buds, caressed your 

tender polished limbs, 
And joined the night's low-breathing voice in whispered 

lullabye of hymns; 

Elastic pinions wafted round the frankincense by censers 
flung, 

That gold and amethystine, smoked, from lightly trem- 
bling pillars swung; 

The deUcately-fingered grass reached to the fount of 
lucid dew. 

And nightly, on your rootlets young, the waters of re- 
freshment threw; 

The hovering wings of life and joy, the softly flowing 

stream of song, 
The morning light and evening shade, alluring came; — 

you would be strong, 

And with the grace of vigor robed, or the beauty of o'er- 
flowing force. 

And so the atmosphere of love played round in ever- 
cycling course. 

Half unregarded; but the storm, the v/hirlwind-con- 

flict that begets 
A resolution of recoil, the iron energy that sets 



Valley and Mountains. 

Its inburnt symbol on each line, were grateful to your 

lustihood; 
The flooding clouds, the scorching noon, the stubborji 

earth, seemed only good. 

A-crown the gnarled and grown-rough trunk, at last you 

widely matched the skies, 
The panoply and canopy of many children's upturned 

eyes. 

Each day's content, I found your shade, and turned 

again your green to view; — 
** It's glory dignifies the hill! " my fellows said in naming 

you. 

Within the overlighting air, you hung as April's cloudlet, 

light; 
Yet, based like pillared temple, stood serenely in the 

azure height; 

And when the fierce pre-eminence, pavilioned in the field 

of storm. 
Through cloudy folds of darkness showed the swift 

effulgence of his form, 

And wide the firmament was rent, and all the hills 

tumultuous shook. 
Your heart's dilating eagerness the pain of lack could 

never brook; 



Trust. 

And lo! the oft-repeated prayer, "Wreathe, with thy 

lightnings wreathe, my brow! " 
The radiant fatality has witheringly answered now! 

Yet is the doom of self to law, the law of aspiration, 

good ; 
Still let your offspring seek the best, the highest claim of 

hardihood. 



TRUST. 

I DID not think old January's heart 
Could hold so much of sweetness and delight: 
The bonds of ice are broken wide apart. 
The solitudes of snow are warm and bright. 

Be comforted, be glad, O hope deferred, 
And rest thou, heavy heart, on mighty love; 

Not blindly, not delusively, are stirred 

The trusting bfeast and vernal lights above. 

Some gracious good is surely waiting thee; 

Some noble duty to be greatly done; 
Some rich fruition, deeper than the sea; 

Some deathless glory, brighter than the sun! 



Valley and Mountains. 



AFTER THE SPRING RAIN. 

A FTER the spring rain 

■^ ^ The sun is warm again, 
And life enlarges with a sudden bound of pleasure; 

The sap is in flood-tide, 

The bud is bursting wide, 
And all the fields of grass are growing without measure. 

It's hard to stay in-doors 

When such abundant stores 
Of sunshine, woodland melody, and delicious breezes, 

Are pouring freshness out 

On all the lands about. 
And one may take, for naught, as much and such as 
pleases. 

The balmy air is soft, 

But through the skies aloft 
An awful loveliness is melting to the mountains; 

Whose marble whiteness goes, 

And from their mighty snows 
Burst through the springing flowers a ^nousand quicken- 
ing fountains. 



After the Spring Rain, 

The cattle once more graze, 

And through the moistened ways 
They swing their ponderous heads and clip the tender 
grasses; 

They know no mild surprise 

For azure deeps of skies, 
Or clouds along the distance rolled in sunlit masses. 

The birds, they feel it all: 

The sunbeams, as they fall, 
Go to their ardent hearts and wake the clear-toned voices, 

And they must sing or die, 

Sing all their ecstasy, 
And all the world in sympathy with them rejoices. 

The trees are sacred now, 

Where each has sung the vow 
Of perfect love to one sweet mate beside him singing; 

And as the cloudlets drink 

The sunset's rosy pink. 
So all the spaces round with echoed love are ringing. 

The morning's kindly beams 
So through this noonday streams. 
And mingles mildness in the tumult of its glory. 
The open ways are fine; 
But under this great pine 



Valicy and Mountains. 

We'll risk the cones that chattering squirrel drops from 
his third story, 

And let each grateful limb 

In soothing languor swim; 
And let the dreamy fragrance cnlm the streaming motion 

(That throbs along the brain 

As toward the shores of pain) 
From out the glowing bosom of the fertile ocean 

Of airs that pass along 

Between the trees of song, 
And round the farther peaks of distant-beaming white- 
ness; 

Of swimming sapphire lights 

And amethystine heights, 
Unspeakable in lofty blue and dazzling brightness. 

XLV. 

THEY CAME BY NIGHT AND SANG. 

nPHEY came by night and sang; 

-^ And what could be more sweet ? 
The airy spaces rang, 

The dew shook at their feet. 
The night was filled with song 

As day is filled w-ith light; 



They Came by Night and Sang. 

It seemed as if the strong, 

Bright stars did sing that night. 

I slept, and hearing, dreamed 

Of Paradise and bliss; 
^olian rivers streamed, 

And fell in some abyss 
With silver- sounding roars, 

That rolled among the hills, 
And filled the farthest shores 

As sea the ocean fills. 

I woke, but still to seem 

Upon celestial ground ; 
'Twas gentler than the dream, 

And sweeter than the sound 
Of marriage bells to those 

Who enter undefiled, — 
'Twas like the flowering rose 

I tended when a child. 

One clearer voice I heard. 

Which rose above the throng. 
And like a strong-winged bird 

Led on the flight of song; 
Some hidden fire was there. 

Some rapture of the dove. 
Some pleading as in prayer,— 

I questioned, Is it love ? 



Valley and Mountains. 

And at the thought my heart 

Arose in speechless joys, 
And gave the blood a start 

Delicious as a boy's; 
The night was filled with song 

As day is filled with light; 
It seemed as if the strong, 

Bright stars did sing that night! 



BIRD MARY. 

T) IRD and bird, I hardly know 
^-^ Which is which, they sister so. 

— One is out among the trees. 

So's the other, if you please; 
Sunlight in the streaming hair, 
Sunlight on the forehead bare, 
Dewdrops on the loose-drawn vest, 
Fragrance round the snowy breast. 
Stooping to the fountain's brink 
For a moment's bath and drink. 

— One has wings for joyous flight. 

Flying is the Bird's delight. 

Springing through the shrubs and flowers, 



Bird Mary. 

Shaking down the honeyed showers, 
Over the meadow grass she glides; 
Now among the leafage hides, 
Panting like a winged thing 
In the blooming air of spring; 
Bounding here and fluttering there. 
Bird and birdie make a pair. 

— One in melting song is heard. 

She can warble like a bird. 
Don't you hear her in the morn 
Soon as the rosy day is born ? 
And the nightingale alone 
Joins her happy good-night tone. 
Why, her laugh's a song of mirth. 
Making sweet and glad the earth. 
There! her lark-like music — hark! 
That, perhaps, though, is the lark; 
But their notes re-echo so. 
Which is which I hardly know. 
All the freedom and delight 
Birds can feel in song and flight. 
All the full and fairy grace 
Azure sky and sunlight trace, — 
Is the Bird's, is Mary's dower. 
Born and raised in nature's bower. 



Valley and Mountains. 



WHERE SHOULD LIKE I BEST TO MEET 
THEE. 

"\ 1[ 7"HAT were fittest spot to greet thee? 

V V Where should like I best to meet thee? 
Meet in rapture, part in sorrow, 
Hoping yet to meet to-morrow. 

Where the violets blue and yellow nestle in the grass, 
Making boys and maidens wonder, as they daily pass, 
From what fairy plant or blossom can escape the sweet 
That makes all the spot enchanting round their lingering 
feet,— 

There a log is sinking yearly deeper in the sod. 
And the trunk is almost hidden by the golden rod; 
There I like, when sad and weary, to repose a while 
In the perfume of the flowers and thy pleasant smile. 

When the mellow warmth of pleasure dwells upon each 

spot, 
I would move beside thee like a river, stopping not; 
Round the wooded promontory, through the heather 

deeps. 
Far along the ragged border of the lava-steeps; 



Where Should Like I Best to Meet Thee. 

Pleasure linked to higher pleasure as we pass along, 
Binding heart to heart with beauty and a yearning strong, 
Drawing closer, drawing closer breast to thiobbing 

breast, 
Till the tumult of embracing forces us to rest. 

Torn with petty cares like briers till I smart with rage. 
Touches from the coming glory will the pain assuage. 
Leading out to goodly places where the laurel grows, 
And a stream of living sweetness underneath it flows. 

Then my spirits lift the vapors and behold the sky — 
And the lowest deeps of valley it can dignify — 
And the spacious open forest, breathing fuller scope. 
Seems the fittest place to meet thee, and to share the 
hope. 

Trees of mighty heart and measure match the great 

design, 
As thy largeness of affection mates itself with mine; 
And the resolution, rooted in that world of love, 
Lifts its top of aspiration to the light above; — 

Oh to move the press of people surging on to zeal. 
Till the throng of breasts are burning with the flame I 
feel! 



Valley and Mountams. 

Oh to cast in every furrow where a mind does beat, 
Seeds of thought that swell and quicken like the grains 
of wheat! 

Oh to shout the pride of being and the joy of earth, 
Silent gladness of the rivers and the brooklets' mirth, 
Animation of the valleys and the hills' content, 
And the paean of the mountains through the nations 
sent! 

Thus the great desires come round me trailing larger 

thought, 
And the plain of contemplation to my feet is brought; — 
Now the mountain-tops were grateful, and the prospect 

fair. 
Stretching to the far horizon, were you only there. 

For the heart's pulsating passion runs through every 

vein, 
Nourishing and so transmuted to the joy and pain; 
Melts into the eager senses, dyes the varied light, 
And with circling summer-fervor, warms the coldest 

height. 



